We knew it would be good, but no one had the right to believe it would turn out this good. The setting’s been brilliant; the football’s been brilliant. Why did we ever doubt it?

But doubt we did, especially when we arrived in Rio five days before the tournament started. There were few signs that a global football tournament was happening any time soon. There was no bunting, no flag waving, no buzz. While there wasn’t exactly revolution in the air, you couldn’t walk very far without seeing graffiti imploring us to “FUCK FIFA”. On the night of the opening game a protest amassed behind our studio on Copacabana beach. Before long, ball bearings (we think) were being fired at our window. Things looked grim.

But that’s when the bad stuff stopped and the fun started. With the help of their team’s steady, if uncertain, progress, Brazilians fell in love with their own World Cup, embracing it with the fervour of new lovers. The armies of visiting fans from Chile, Mexico, Argentina, Uruguay, wherever, were only too happy to join in, their exuberance astonishingly good-natured.

And then there was the brilliance of the football itself. In club football the trend has been for some teams to try “to win without the ball”; to absorb pressure and counter-attack when it suits them. Not anti-football exactly, and not without merit, but certainly not the beautiful game (dread cliché) extolled by Pelé. But what do you know, the world’s footballers turned up here in Brazil hell-bent on playing what can only be described as “Brazilian”, devil-may-care football.

Holland's Robin van Persie scores with a spectacular header in a win against Spain in the 2014 World Cup. Photograph: Jeff Gross/Getty Images

There are those, among them ITV’s smoulderingly beautiful pundit Fabio Cannavaro, who cry “Mamma mia!” in despair at the quality of defending. But hang the defending: just feel the net stir the air and the spirits as another ball crashes into it.

Ironically, one of the few teams not trying to play like Brazil was Brazil. But, hell, they kept winning almost despite themselves; forced over the line by the sheer impossibility of it being otherwise in the eyes of their people. And the party went on – at least until their semi final against German.

Their 7-1 defeat was brutal for the home nation, but it couldn’t dampen the rest of the world’s enthusiasm for a tournament that had made children of us all.

Ian Wright, Lee Dixon, Gordon Strachan, Glenn Hoddle, Gus Poyet and I went to the Maracana one evening. These people have played in these kinds of stadia. But they, like me, were like kids on Christmas morning.

We were lucky enough to stay in the same hotel as the Dutch and were in the bar when they returned to base having trounced Spain. Wide-eyed with childlike wonder, Robin Van Persie said to us: “How did that happen? Where did that come from?”

It’s what we’ll be asking of the whole experience as we pack up our things and return home after the headiest month of our lives.